


Tempest

by Bool_Ji



Series: Pains, Gains, and Automata [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Riding, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:38:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7592932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bool_Ji/pseuds/Bool_Ji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzo has been having a rough time of his Overwatch stay so far. Jesse McCree helps him get over it with some ego stroking. </p><p>And stroking of other parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempest

**Author's Note:**

> If you're just here for the porn, ayyy
> 
> You don't need to read the other two fics in this series but it may help clear up some minor references made.

If McCree held any assumptions on how Hanzo loved, they’re shattered the instant his back hits the floor and the archer topples along with him. _Clumsy me_ , he wants to say, but the lips mashing against his own steal his breath. The autopilot understands the wave of his prosthetic hand well enough, closing the side hatch before anyone can see Hanzo Shimada trying to carve out his soul with his tongue.

He tastes like the goddamn nachos he had for lunch and Jesse doesn’t care -- too enamored with this impossible scenario, this impossible warrior, and when he reaches down to clutch his ass through soft, baggy _hakama_ and Hanzo moans approvingly, he feels himself falling again.

“Feelin’ better?” McCree asks when they part for air. He pulls Hanzo’s belt free, satchels and sake bottle dropping, heart alight as the archer _lets him_.

The archer sits up. The expanse of his chest is solid muscle and soft skin and meteor-shaped scars. “My mood is improving,” Hanzo concedes, undoing the scarf restraining his hair. Down, black strands brush against his shoulders. “Ask me again when you remove your clothing.”

Jesse rises onto his elbows. There’s a grin on his face that instantly sets Hanzo on edge. He half-suspects the cowboy is a greedy lover, self-satisfied of his romantic skills, already confident he can reduce him to an incoherent, gooey mess. If that is true, then this is a mistake--

But McCree doesn’t go for his chest or his hips or even his mouth again. He simply presses a kiss to the dark mole lurking beneath Hanzo’s right arm. The blemish, though tiny, is embarrassing, an imperfection he never got around to removing.

“Sounds mighty fine t’me,” Jesse says, “Mind lettin’ me up though? We don’t mop the floors of these things as often as we should.” 

“ _Tchh_.” Hanzo smirks. It’s reassuring to know he still holds the reins. McCree knows his place, and he rewards him with a roll of his hips against the cowboy’s groin as he stands, relishing the moan he frees. He sounds surprised. _Good_.

Jesse, for his part, can only stare at the ceiling for a few dazed seconds before rising himself. He’s never seen someone take off their pants from the bottom up before, but that’s what Hanzo’s doing -- sitting on the edge of the table, fingertips gingerly sinking beneath alloy kneecaps to unhook the hems of his _hakama_ from their moorings. They’re frayed, slightly damp with sweat, and before the archer can remove them entirely, McCree slides his hands below them. Hanzo’s prosthetics are a marvel, but it’s the unseen that intrigues him. There must be bone work involved, titanium and steel reinforcement -- he’s seen Hanzo stick thirty foot landings without breaking his pelvis.

“You are still not nude,” the archer complains, but all the thigh stroking, the sudden, intense interest, is working for him, flushing him red.

“Sorry, partner.” McCree tries to tip a hat that isn’t there, settles for removing his serape and belt and tossing them onto the plush seating instead. _Just thinking about the hell you must’ve gone through_ , he muses, _I had to get my arm redone. You got_ both legs. Out loud, he says, “Yer a hero.”

“Hmm.” Hanzo gets onto his knees, not only because Jesse’s _finally_ removing his armor and the shirt underneath (some sturdy brown cotton thing stained with exertion) but because those words have stirred his heart. Part of him sobs darkly that disarming a single bomb isn’t enough to redeem the sins of his past. He doesn’t listen to it. “Say that again.”

The cowboy grins, thumbs in his belt buckles. He likes the way Hanzo’s sizing him up, the thick hair on his chest, the slight pouch of his belly -- muscle, mind, extra pounds he wouldn’t mind using to keep Hanzo right where he is, squirming just short of blood and violence, pinning down the dragonfly, but that will be an adventure for another day. “Yer a grade-A, one hundred percent hero, darlin’. Five million lives get t’keep on chuggin’ thanks t’you.”

The archer molds his arms around McCree’s shoulders, ignoring the slight annoyance that he has to lift up to meet his face even with the table. “Never forget it,” he says, and kisses him.

It’s tenderer than before, their desperation boiled off. Jesse likes it that way, though he’s certainly no stranger to frantic romance. Now he has a chance to do something he’s wanted for a very long time: get into Hanzo’s pants.

What he finds takes his breath away.

“Didn’t take ya for a thong man.”

“ _Fundoshi_.”

“Gesundheit.”

Hanzo sighs. Figuring the best way to explain is to show, not tell, he lets his _hakama_ slip down.

Now _that’s_ a pretty sight. Call it what you want -- to McCree, it’s a thong. Snow white, low on his hips, and (his favorite part) tented in the front. Hanzo’s erection is plain to see, and the knowledge that Jesse has caused it makes his own groin ache in longing. Which is when he realizes he still has his pants on, and his boots on underneath. “Hold on a sec, sugar.”

He’s so eager, it’s almost sad. Chuckling as McCree struggles to remove his shoes in a sexy fashion, the archer reclines on his side. Making sure the cowboy’s watching, he picks the end of his _fundoshi_ , lets it unravel, sets the cloth length with the rest of his clothing, and cracks a deadly smile.

“ _Whoa_ ,” is all Jesse can manage.

“Well?”

McCree sheds his clothes double time, rifling through his armor for -- bingo. He can anticipate what Hanzo will think about him carrying a condom around, but it’s only one, and he doesn’t go through them often. There’s another problem, however. “I don’t -- the shuttle’s got med packs, but they don’t pack lube, darlin’. No one’s exactly havin’ their honeymoon in one of these thi--”

On his back, spread out across the table, Hanzo wets a finger, trails it between his legs, and carefully pushes it in his hole on a smooth exhale. His other hand strokes his cock, slowly, thumb creeping up to rub over the tip. In defiance of the oddness of the entire situation -- the Shimada heir, high on simple continued existence, fingerfucking himself in the belly of an Overwatch ship while a cowboy stares at him -- he snickers. “ _Please_. I have wandered alone for ten _years_. Do not presume I do not know how to handle myself.”

Jesse’s speechless. He’s still turned on -- almost painfully, his own erection tall and proud -- but Hanzo, true to form, nailed him right in the heart. He lets him get on with it for a while, admiring how Hanzo opens up for his own finger, imagining dark nights and threadbare cots in remote corners of the world, silence broken only by his own breath -- then lays beside him. “Hey.”

The archer opens one eye. “Hm?”

McCree kisses him. It’s even slower, lips languidly meeting, affording Jesse an opportunity to lick his own fingers. “Yes, you may,” Hanzo murmurs -- it sounds like a prayer. He doesn’t flinch when McCree eases his digit in beside the archer’s own, one and then the other, relishing the stretch and the novel angle. This has taken a turn for the intimate, urgency ebbing away, and Hanzo’s surprised to find he’s not concerned at all.

“You good with this?” Jesse asks, “I don’t wanna _presume_ nothin’.”

Hanzo seizes the chance to wrestle back more control. Sitting up, gingerly extracting their fingers in the process, he says, “Save my life a third time, and I will suck your cock.”

Profanity coming from the archer feels like the world’s kindest snakebite. Jesse puts the condom on. “Honey, I will dive off a _thousand_ trains if it means gettin’ yer lips around my piece.”

Hanzo huffs a laugh. “Do not remind me. Lay here.” He directs McCree to lay back, legs halfway hanging off the table, straddles his hips.

Sinking down onto him makes both men grit their teeth, knuckles white, eyes clenched shut.

Finally, Hanzo chortles, bracing himself on the cowboy’s chest. “I have not forgotten how this feels.”

Part of Jesse wants to pick at that scab until it bleeds information: who fucked him last, how, where, but it’s not important. What matters is reacting to the pace the archer’s set. The minimal prep worries him, and bites his lip and tries not to move. Then it hits him like a lightning bolt:

 _Make me feel alive_.

Confident in the knowledge Hanzo has no qualms about kicking him in the face if he’s actually hurt, McCree clutches his hips and drives into him as he rocks down.

The shout in surprised pleasure is music to his ears.

Things degenerate shortly after that. There is an ache, one Hanzo knows will last and distract him for hours, but that’s par for the course. How good it feels is worth focusing on, how the cowboy’s pushing inside him in deep, rude thrusts, bumping and rubbing and making him _take it_. This treatment from anyone else would make him see red, but it’s _Jesse McCree_ , stars in his eyes--

Hanzo bats away the fingers wrapping around his cock, half-aware of the strand of white that sticks to them. “No, I want -- I--”

McCree gets it, reaching for his chest instead. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t wanted to cup his pecs, give perky nipples greedy tugs just to make him yell again. And isn’t Hanzo fantastic like this -- so sensitive inside, hot silk and tight muscle that refuse to let go and then beg for return, lips parted around heavy, desperate breaths, black hair bouncing around his shoulders--

It’s like fucking a force of nature.

Hanzo’s orgasm hits him like a tidal wave. Hand clamped over his mouth, what escapes him are almost sobs as he comes entirely untouched, cock spitting thick spurts onto McCree’s chest.

Jesse’s only a second behind, hips bucking one last time as he spends himself. He has a moment of regret for the condom, imagining he spills inside Hanzo instead, filling him up--

\--then he opens his eyes. Hanzo’s panting above him, disheveled and glistening, frowning as if baffled about feeling affection for this humble cowpoke.

 _Someone help me_ , McCree thinks, _I have seen the light_.

All too soon Hanzo gets up, hissing as Jesse slips free and his body clenches around nothing. McCree removes the condom, ties it shut, pinches the end between two fingers as he wonders what to do with the damn thing. He has no idea what will happen next, if he’s balancing on a tightrope or has his feet firmly grounded. If he walks away alone or matches footsteps with a dragon.

Hanzo lies beside him, head on his shoulder, and drapes the serape over them. Not exactly a crystal ball telling him their future, but destiny can wait.

“Was it good fer you?”

The archer throws an arm across the cowboy’s chest, brown eyes contemplative. He picks at the edge of the cloak. “This would look better in green.”

That’s as much of an answer as McCree’s going to get. He’ll take it. Because he thinks he’s unraveling the hurricane, riding Hanzo’s currents. And while he’s no weatherman, this feels a lot like smooth sailing. He’ll settle for that.

“Green, huh?” Jesse smirks, dropping the condom on the floor (he’ll deal with it later) and resting his hand behind his head. “I’ll wear green...if you wear gold.”

Hanzo peers up at him. “Gold.”

“I mean, there ain’t no currency that can measure yer worth, darlin’, but it’d get the message across.”

The archer shifts, crawling on top of McCree. For a horrifying second, the cowboy fears the coming insults, the derogatory comments about his one-liners, his style, or -- heaven forbid -- his penis, but Hanzo grins, stroking Jesse’s beard. “Do you think you can afford me?”

An updraft. “How ‘bout a free trial first?”

And he soars skyward when Hanzo answers.

“Seven days.”

“You got yerself a deal.”


End file.
